


the souls that throng the flood

by zjofierose



Series: Sheith Angst Week 2018 [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Kerberos Mission, Loss, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: "The souls that throng the floodAre those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow'd:In Lethe's lake they long oblivion taste,Of future life secure, forgetful of the past."-Aenied, VirgilThey keep saying that Shiro is dead, but Keith wouldknowif he'd lost his soulmate. Hewould.





	the souls that throng the flood

**Author's Note:**

> written for day whatever this is (4? I think?) of the Sheith Angst Week. like all the rest, it is unbeta'd and written in a rush, and is thus of questionable quality. my apologies.
> 
> Posted to fill the Sheith Angst Week prompt "Soul" and the Voltron Bingo prompt "Soulmates".

“How is he?” they ask over his head when they come for him, their white coats blocking out the edges of his vision as he breathes slowly through his nose. He sits stock still on the bench in Iverson’s office. Maybe if he doesn’t move they’ll leave him. Maybe they’ll forget he’s here. Maybe they’ll let him stay.

“Denial,” Iverson says, and it’s all just white noise in his ears, has been for the last two days since the news broke, since they said the words to him, since it became officially real.

“That’s not uncommon in cases like this,” one of the white coats says reassuringly, his voice kind. “We hate to see them this young, but hopefully after he’s had some time to process the loss in a calm and supportive environment, he’ll be able to live a relatively normal life, albeit with supervision.”

Iverson nods curtly, and Keith is screaming, _screaming_ inside, has been screaming for forty eight hours at differing levels of audibility. “His stuff is packed. He’s all ready to go.”

“Keith,” the white coated man who has been doing all the talking leans in and puts a hand on his shoulder, “are you ready to come with us?” His face is blank and smiling, the kind of non-threatening that gets practiced in a mirror and on small children.

“Go on, son,” Iverson says, standing up from behind his desk and straightening his uniform, “there’s nothing left for you here now,” and it’s then that Keith breaks again, his forty-eighth hourly scheduled breakdown, though maybe he’s counting wrong, because some of them have definitely outlasted their allotted 60 minutes.

“Shiro’s. Not. _Dead_.” He gets it out through gritted teeth and a tortured throat.

The doctor makes a sympathetic _moue_ at him. “I know, son. It’s a lot to take in. but if you just come with us, we’ll…”

Keith throws the hand off his shoulder in a rage, a shout of pain echoing sharply in the room as he breaks free. _I hope it's broken_ , he thinks viciously as he bolts for the door, flinging it open and crashing into the hallway at full speed. He doesn't get far - the other two white coats are clearly just paid goons in lab jackets, and they grab him, hauling him bodily out to an unremarkable khaki van. He struggles, fights with all that's in him, kicking and scratching and clawing and screaming, because once he's out of the Garrison, that's it for him and his dreams, that’s it for them letting him find Shiro, that’s it for him being able to steal a ship and just go. Everything will be exponentially harder, and he’s desperate, _desperate_ not to spend any more time waiting to find out the truth.

He sees the syringe coming for his shoulder, but there's nothing he can do to avoid it, gasping and hiccuping _no, no, no, Shiro_ , as the world goes black.

\--

He wakes up in a small room, alone. The walls are painted a peaceful light green, and there’s a window facing some sort of courtyard, twists of flowering vines tapping lightly at the stone window frame. It’s evening, judging by the way the light is slanting in across the end of the single bed he’s lying on, and he’s been dressed in what amounts to a pair of scrubs in a flat grey tone that aims for bland and ends up closer to maudlin.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” says a voice from the doorway, and he looks over to see a young nurse smiling reassuringly at him. “Just in time for dinner! Come on,” they gesture, “I’ll show you to the dining room.”

Keith shakes his head obstinately. Eating is the last thing he wants to do, and eating surrounded by strangers sounds like an even worse proposition. He needs space to think, to breathe, to try and begin to figure out how to get out of here, how to get up _there_.

“Now, now,” the nurse clicks their tongue and steps over to Keith, taking his bony elbow in their hand. “That’s no way to behave. You’ll want to get off on the right foot here!”

His body goes tense with the urge to fight, but he lets it all out with a long breath. What’s the point? They got him. He’s here now. If he wants to get out and find Shiro, he’s going to have to play along, at least for tonight.

“That’s a good boy,” the nurse says approvingly, and Keith’s hand is moving before he realizes it, forcing their wrist back and up until he has them pinned fully against the doorframe and squeaking with outrage.

“No one,” Keith’s voice is shredded, and it aches to speak, “ _no one_ calls me that. Got it?”

“Okay,” they choke out, and Keith releases them, letting them sink down flat footed and rub angrily at their wrist. “Fucking _fine_. Jesus. You pull that shit again, I’m reporting you, I don’t care how new you are.” They shake their arm out and glare at Keith. “Come on. Downstairs. Dinner time.”

Keith takes one look at the open window behind him, then turns and follows the nurse down.

\--

Dinner is a cafeteria affair, and he’d almost think he was back in the Garrison again if not for the way everything has rounded corners and soft pastels. He’s never been to a place like this before, but he supposes suicide is a continual danger. They eat their dinner with rounded plastic spoons, not a fork or knife to be found. The tumblrs are plastic, the windows shatter proof, and he thinks this must be what preschool is like, only here, you never grow up and out.

 _Lethe Manor_ read the words stamped onto the back of each utensil, each plate. He catches a glimpse of a poster in the hallway as they walk past, a picture of a lazy river in a field with the same two words at the top, and a caption at the bottom that reads _Home for the Unbonded_ . He shivers involuntarily as he takes the words in; it’s like being in a graveyard, surrounded by ghosts, the walking corpses of the undead. _The unbonded_ , he thinks to himself, and shudders.

He knows where he is, and why - when someone is old, and their bondmate dies, they can, and nearly always do, request to be released with them. In fact it’s often not needed, as it’s not at all uncommon for elderly bondmates to die within minutes or hours of each other, the body of the remaining soul surrendering to the trauma of the loss of its other half. But when a pair is younger, if the bond is severed, the remaining person must be cared for, whether by family (if any are available and willing), or in a group home, like this, where they can live out their days in peace and quiet, unhindered by the need to function in an meaningful way in society.

Keith has never visited a Home, but he’s heard of them, even had classmates who had relatives in them. Few people visit, once a family member is sent to a home; it’s too painful for the unbonded person to be forced to remember their past life, and it’s against many superstitions for those whose soulmate is still alive to enter a place such as this. Bad luck, it’s considered, an ill omen; it’s tempting fate to surround oneself with this much visceral loss. Keith bites down on his panic and reaches out in his mind, letting his eyes flutter shut as he follows the thread of connection out from his mind, his heart, into the starry ether above them. It’s faint, has been faint for months, because Pluto is a fuck of a long way from Earth, but it’s there. It’s still _there_.

\--

It gets quiet after dinner, the residents settling in for the evening. They’re a silent, vacant, bunch on the whole, and it’s making Keith’s skin crawl to be among them. Many are older, not elderly, but in late middle age: old enough to have lost their soulmate to natural causes, but young enough that their bodies didn’t simply surrender to the process. There are a few younger folks, late twenties to mid thirties, but Keith thinks he’s the youngest. Most eat in silence, a few conversing, but there’s a sense of the whole community being subsumed in cotton wool, held in stasis under glass. The feeling of moving through a fog persists until the dessert course, when one of the middle-aged women abruptly begins to scream, tears pouring down her face as she clutches at herself, shrieking a name that Keith can’t quite make out. Two white-coated goons come to sedate her, catching her body as it falls and carrying it carefully away, one plump arm dropping from their hold to trail along the ground as they go.

It feels like a goose walking on his grave. He knows Shiro’s still alive, though he doesn’t know why the Garrison’s lying about it (if they are, he’s honestly not sure about that, maybe they truly believe that Shiro’s dead and he’s delusional), but he doesn’t know what’s happened to Shiro, or how to even begin to get him back. He refuses to believe that it will happen, but he can’t ignore the haunting possibility that, before this is all over, he _will_ belong here in ways he doesn’t yet. He pushes the thought down ruthlessly, slicing it out before it can take hold. He will not allow it. He will find Shiro, and he will save him, and there is no other outcome that he will even entertain.

He escapes as quickly as he can, making his way up to his room in silence. He just wants to be alone.

Night has fallen, and the room is dark. He leaves the light off, crossing to the window and staring out. It’s cloudy and moonless, not a single solitary star that he can see or recognize, no twinkling light that he can pretend is Shiro’s ship.

He lets himself fall apart, then, for the last time. He won’t have time for grief later, for loss and loneliness and confusion and doubt. He lets the sobs shake him, lets the tears roll down his face as he clutches at the windowsill, face tipped up the sky. He shapes Shiro’s name with his lips, mouthing it helplessly into the darkness, feeling the bond in his mind like the root of a sore tooth, stretched too thin and worried at constantly, pouring all the love and devotion and determination into it that he can.

Tomorrow, he will make a plan. He will get his knife, and his bike, and he will find a way to get to space, because there is nothing in this universe, _nothing_ , not Iverson, not the nurses, not even Fate herself that can stop him from going after his soulmate. But tonight, he lets the salt catch on his lips as he whispers into the dark.

“ _Shiro. I love you. I’m coming for you_.”

 


End file.
